


We'll Meet Again

by Karios



Category: Forever (TV), The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Relationships, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death Fix, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, POV First Person, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 05:07:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16278308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karios/pseuds/Karios
Summary: With help from another Henry, Henry DeTamble refuses death. He changes it, just as Claire asked.





	We'll Meet Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Syrena_of_the_lake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrena_of_the_lake/gifts).



> I got swept up by this idea and it absolutely wouldn't let me go. I hope it meets with your expectations. Thank you for your gorgeous prompts.
> 
> Many, many thanks to Isis for the incredible down to the last minute beta!

Wednesday, April 3, 1983 (Henry Morgan is 204, Henry DeTamble is 45, Alba DeTamble is 9)

It is truly spring, the air just crisp-cool enough for a midweight scarf, and scented by budding trees and blossoms strong enough to be detected over the more common aroma of urban sprawl here on the outskirts of Chicago. The sky is a brilliant blue and I am walking aimlessly, listening to birdsong, attempting to feel as young and alive as I look. A young girl races down the street to me, a man in a wheelchair frantically chasing after her, wincing as his momentum is hindered by uneven sidewalk.

“Daddy, it's the other CDP man. The one who saved you. Daddy!” she calls, bouncing up and down to ensure her father is still following.

“CDP?” I ask the exuberant girl, if only to get her to stop hopping and drawing the attention of others in the street.

She leans in and says, “Chrono-displaced person,” as if we’re sharing an important secret. I can't help but wonder if this is some kind of code-word for immortality, but before I can ask, or even decide what to ask, her father has arrived, puffing slightly from exertion.

“Alba, you shouldn't run away from me like that. You know it's hard for me to push myself.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy but it’s _him_.” The girl, Alba, points up at me, shiny-eyed. I remember the expression well from Abraham’s childhood, on the day we took him to the department store to meet the fellow playing Superman.

“Alba, you're going to scare him,” Alba’s father says, then struggles up onto what remains of his legs. He braces himself with one hand and uses the other to shake mine. “Henry Morgan,” he says, as our hands bob up and down, “I'm Henry DeTamble, and you saved my life.”

Saturday, October 27, 1984 (Henry Morgan is 206)

No matter how much practice I have at death, it does not get easier. Certain factors make it considerably more challenging, though: crowds near the shore, unfamiliar bodies of water, having to fend for myself. Nothing else is quite so miserable as clawing my way out of water thick with chunks of ice. I can feel the first signs of hypothermia beckoning as I scramble onto the grass, the dry air working to wick moisture from my burning, overworked limbs. I lay there panting for only a moment, before I remember. Today is the day I’ve been waiting eighteen months for. I struggle to my feet, scan for the deer and break headlong into a run. I must get there in time.

Wednesday, April 3, 1983 (Henry Morgan is 204, Henry DeTamble is 45, Alba DeTamble is 9)

The other Henry stared at me, his mind clearly struggling to place me. “I shouldn't explain in public, where someone might overhear. Is there somewhere we can go, nearby?” I ask. Both to reduce the risk that I will travel before I can get the information out, and because I am so tired already.

“I live just over there,” Henry says, pointing down the street to his home. I nod to indicate that's acceptable, and he wheels me that way without even needing to be asked.

Back at his front door, Henry puts my brakes on, says, “Just a moment,” and then slips inside by himself.

Even through the closed door I can hear their argument, born from an anger so old it no longer takes care to be quiet.

“Henry? I thought we agreed you were going out for a while.”

“Yes, well, something happened and I brought guests.”

“People, here? I’m not presentable.”

“Abigail, you're beautiful as ever.” 

There is a pause, and I can't see anything of course, but I imagine that he is kissing her, because I would, had that been me and Clare.

“They won't be long,” Henry promises, as he pulls open the front door. 

“Sorry. My wife,” he says, by way of explanation. As Henry and Alba work together to push-pull my chair over the threshold I catch a glimpse of Abigail, and my heart aches for her as it does for Clare.

Moments later, we are settled in the Morgans’ small and cozy home. Henry asks if he can get us anything, but I’m already starting to feel the slight tingle, the pull that is making reality lose its edges so I decline. “I guess it hasn't happened for you yet. That makes sense, considering.”

“Considering what?” 

Instead of answering his question right off, I ask, “What's today's date?”

“April 3rd, 1983.” His brow is furrowed and the tension in his jaw suggests I’m trying his patience, so I decide to come out with it.

“Next October, October 1984, you are going to be in a meadow, running naked, and catch a stray bullet. A bullet that could have hit me, killed me.” Did once, I think but don't say. I still don't understand how I can remember it two ways, but Henry said I was to tell him, so here I am.

“I would call this an odd April Fool's prank, but as we’ve previously established, you’re some 48-odd-hours too late for that.”

“Dr. Morgan, please, I assure you, I'm being perfectly serious. In my original version of events, I'm shot in that meadow and I die at 43 years old. My daughter,” I gesture toward Alba, “grows up without her father. My wife is forced to grow old without me. Please, I can't let that happen, not when there's a chance-”

Henry interrupts, “I don't understand. How can you possibly know what's happening in next, next October? Let alone when you're going to -- ” he glances apologetically at Alba -- “die?”

“I _told_ you,” Alba says rolling her eyes at Henry. “CDP. We’re time-travelers. Aren't you?”

“No.” Henry puzzles for a moment. “Time travel. Like H. G. Wells?”

“I don't have a machine, it's genetic,” I clarify. “We just sort of pop from one place and time to another. Sometimes earlier, sometimes later. It tends to be triggered, like epilepsy.” As I explain and Henry continues to stare at me blankly, the enormity of what I'm asking of Henry settles on me. If he's not chrono-displaced, then he couldn't possibly survive the gunshot. I had hoped that he’d popped into the future where they treated him. He had sounded so sure he’d survive.

“So, you saw me run in front of a bullet headed towards you, and I tell you to come back here and give me this information?”

“You run toward the deer,” Alba chimes in. “That's important.”

“I'm so sorry. I never realized I killed you. I wouldn't have come.” I say. That much is a lie, but I’d like it to be true. I’d like to be the kind of man who wouldn't ask someone to trade his life for mine.

The guilt of it is enough to cause me to travel.

Saturday, October 27, 1984 (Henry DeTamble is 43 and 43, Henry Morgan is 206)

I’m in the meadow, and already the New Year's Eve party feels far away as I sink into the tall dry grass. The sense of dread curls around me and I think, _let it be quick_. I wrap Clare’s love around me like a blanket as I turn to stare empty-eyed at the deer. The crack of the rifle sounds, far away. A blur races past me. The bullet doesn't hit me: not the current version of me, nor the slightly-younger me dressed in an overcoat, boots, and gloves, who I know is watching, who will soon make his way here.

Instead a different stark-naked man falls in front of me, crumbling into the snow, and I struggle to my knees wondering where he could have come from. Wondering how I’ve escaped death.

“I was supposed to be shot. This is when I die,” I inform him.

“So I’ve heard. Please tell me you're not disappointed.” The man smiles up at me, which falters when he coughs to relieve the pressure in his chest. 

“But I’ve seen it. I was here--Mark, he shot _me_. Oh God, he shot _you_ , you're bleeding, oh God.” I open my mouth and draw in breath to scream. For help, for Phillip, for Mark, for Clare, even.

Something in the man’s thoroughly panicked expression stops me. I let the air back out again in a puff, like a balloon deflating. The man reaches up, dragging wet fingers across my chest. “Henry, please, we don't,” he rasps, “have much time.”

I know the dying man is right as I shiver, not only from the cold. The sensation, that warning I am about to travel. 

“Mr. DeTamble, you need to focus. You can't go yet, p-please. Otherwise I won't know to be here to save you. And then you really do die here.”

I reach down and press my hands over the wound. People are always doing that in books. The other man cries out at the contact, but it seems to anchor me here a moment longer, so I don't dare let go.

The bleeding man speaks through gritted teeth. “I’m Henry Morgan. We met, for me, a year ago last spring. You were with a little girl, 9 or 10 years old. Your daughter, I think.” 

“Alba,” I tell him.

“Yes, right, Alba. She spotted me first, and you thanked me for saving your life. And you explained about the meadow and you gave me the date and I promised to be here.”

“To trade your life for mine?” asks the other me.

“No, no. I'm not going to die.” Henry Morgan opens his mouth to explain but never gets the chance. His body convulses and then pops out of the space under my hands leaving a bloody patch of snow behind as I topple forward into the snow. 

Phillip and Mark arrive as the other version of me is dragging me backward, my hands still outstretched toward the place where the man, this Henry Morgan, had been.

“What the hell happened here?” asks Mark.

“I don't know,” I say.

“Nothing happened here,” says the younger me, and I'm gone before I can argue.

Wednesday, April 3, 1983 (Henry Morgan is 204, Alba DeTamble is 9)

Mr. DeTamble’s apology comes as a non-sequitur. But it's not nearly as jarring as seeing him sitting there one moment, and then in the next blink, my eyes greet an empty wheelchair, and a pile of limp clothing pooling toward the floor.

“He traveled,” Alba supplies helpfully. “That’s what it looks like. In a little bit, I’ll go too.”

“Okay. Thank you,” I say, for want of anything more appropriate. I have a sudden appreciation for how overwhelming my deaths must be from the outsider’s perspective, and make a mental note to thank Abigail again. I'm pulled from my musings by a tiny hand settling atop my own.

“Henry, are you going to save my daddy?” asks Alba.

“I'm certainly going to try my very best,” I say.

Alba’s gaze drops to the table, her hand clutching tightly at my fingers. “Does that mean you're going to die? I like you.”

“Alba, I promise you, I won't die anytime soon. You don't need to worry about that.” I shift my hand to curl my fingers around hers a half-second before they, along with the rest of the girl, disappear.

Saturday, October 27, 1984 (Henry Morgan is 206)

I fish myself out the water a second time this morning. The meadow is empty, quiet, and largely devoid of evidence of multiple near-death experiences, save a patch of disturbed grass and snow and some discarded clothes. I shrug into the coat, tug on the gloves, and stuff my feet into the boots, glad for the barrier against the predawn air.

I trudge across the meadow, hoping my part has been enough. I address the meadow: “Safe travels, Henry DeTamble. Until we meet again.”

**Author's Note:**

> The date in 1983 is largely arbitrary (save checking to be sure Mr. DeTamble wasn't otherwise occupied). I think the Morgans were in New York by then, so forgive fudging for the sake of plot. Weather for that date is likely inaccurate.


End file.
